Didje Hear 'bout...
'The Dragon's Hoard - ' ---- ::Nestled along the western edge of the road at the northernmost entrance to the district, the Dragon's Hoard welcomes any common traveler with the aromas of richly brewed ale, warm bread, and of course, open wings. With walls built of sturdy stone and supporting beams of pine, patrons can rest assured that it will take more than a simple dispute between pints to tumble the walls. ::''The space inside is well stocked with lengthy tables and smaller, more intimate booths near the corner hearth. To the left of the doorway stands the bar counter where the keeper and maids stand ready to serve up a hearty stew, the latest brew, or endless streams of questionable conversation. To the right of the doorway a small platform has been built up from the straw-covered floor, providing the night's entertainment with a place to perform. ::''For those too tired to watch said performances, their place is across the room and up the narrow staircase to the inn upstairs. A young boy waits patiently (or fast asleep) at the foot of the staircase, ready (when poked with one's toe) to assist patrons in obtaining one of the few rooms available. ::''Despite the light-hearted, bawdy, and at times utterly unruly atmosphere that fills the establishment, the tavern is reigned over by more somber powers - the powers of memory and faith - that is if the carved teeth and gaping maw of a drake head mounted above the hearth don't sober you enough. Above the doorway is a wooden crest - a rosy sun mounted on a pair of white wings, centered on a black plaque which reads: "Out of the ashes of old shall birth a new dawn. May the Light Reach forever." ---- A bustling, busy tavern, filled with laughter and firelight, the smells of freshly-baked bread and ale and thick with more people than is generally considered comfortable. In other words, it's a typical evening at the Dragon's Hoard. "Didje hear 'bout da othah lynchin' in Lightholder?" Zia stops her hand from tugging uncomfortably at the tight-fitting, revealing bodice hugging her torso and bringing out the (slightly scarce) curves of her body, and grins at the barkeep. She's seated at the bar, hair tightly braided in a way that brings out the elfin look in her features and makes her face seem smaller. The thick accent in her voice makes her seem almost foreign, even though it's clearly from Lightholder. "Didn't happen more 'an but a week er so 'go." Sandrim slips into the tavern, frowning thoughtfully to himself as he approaches the bar, scratching his chin. "Mmf. Hey, barkeep. Got any good ale?" Zia pretends to take a long draft from a mug of mead at her elbow. "Nae, nae... come t' think o' it, couldn't o' been more 'an two day. Mebbe three." As Sandrim comes into the room, she glances briefly away from her oh-so-engrossing conversation to flash the man a wickedly mirthful Cheshire-cat grin. The barkeep seems to be hanging onto her every word, eyes wide (though that might have to do with the substantial amount of bosom in view), eyebrows lifted. "You don't say...?" He absently begins to fill an ale for Sandrim. As he hears the voice, Sandrim turns to look at the woman, before one eyebrow starts to creep up. "You don't say about what?" he asks. "Something going on?" Zia beats down half-smothered laughter (as with a club, and drawing the gravest of expressions she can manage across her face), pretends to take another swallow, and nods vigorously. "Aye, aye," she assures them both. "A lynchin'. Lightholder--I'm-a sure o' it. That girl jus' 'bout beat th' man t' death." Sandrim raises an eyebrow. "Well, that'd be news to me... Sure it isn't some, ahh, madam who didn't get paid enough?" "Ayep." Another vigorous nod, and Zia leans forward slightly, as if sharing a confidential secret. "I 'twas in town at the time, y'see. On... bus'ness." Her eyes spark, as if daring any to ask about the nature of this 'business'. "Didn't see it 'appen--oh, no--but I spoke t' th' girl that dun it. Faith, she said 'er name was." The barkeep's attention doesn't waver, and he nods, slowly. "And... what else?" The mage considers Zia thoughtfully as he picks up his ale before asking, "Yeah... what else?" "Well," Zia muses, plucking at the neckline of that bodice in a way that draws the attention of the barkeep, though she pretends not to notice. "'e were a mage," she adds. "I reckon that be why this Faith girl beat 'im up so bad." "That is getting to be rather common, up north," Sandrim muses. "Used to be a problem down here - even attacked the Syladris." "Nonono. Nae up nor'," Zia corrects. "Lightholder." She frowns, as if a thought is just occurring to her, and leans in even further to speak to Sandrim and the bartender in a low, secretive voice. "Lissen. It don't seem like *nobody's* safe these days, do it, what wi' the Syl'dris gettin' 'tacked an' the mages runnin' all 'round gettin' lynched. I wants t' spread th' word. T' make folks more 'lert, y'see? C'n ye 'elp me t' talk t' 'em, an' make sure they's knowin' th' danger?" She shifts her head slightly, so she's looking up at the barkeep from beneath her lashes. "Fer me?" Sandrim gives Zia a small smile. "I'll do my best, Mistress," he says. The bartender nods, grinning at the half-pleading earnestness of the expression Zia's managed. "Aye, that I can. What'd you say your name was?" Zia tells him, something short and quick and undoubtedly made up on the spot--easy to believe, easy to forget--and that grin returns as the barkeep wanders off to tend to other customers. Leaning over to Sandrim, she smirks and lowers her voice. "I just have to keep telling myself the fun is *worth* this damn thing." She plucks at the bodice again. Sandrim smirks and whispers back, "So, what are you /doing/ now?" Zia draws her cloak about her shoulders, obscuring the revealing clothing and undoubtedly enjoying the warmth it provides. "I'm doing Isa a favor," she murmurs. "Possibly saving her life. 'member I told you I'd tell you about Thayndor? It has to do with that scheme. How much has Taran told you?" Sandrim raises an eyebrow. "About nothing," he says. "Want to go elsewhere to talk about it?" Zia glances around the tavern. "Aye. Crowds are good about just not *listening*... but I *know* walls don't listen. You lead." She pushes aside her mead. Sandrim grins and nods, offering an arm to Zia. "Come on, I'll show you what a /real/ sword is, pretty lady," he says in a more audible voice, adding a cheesy leer to it. "Just come right up here." Zia narrowly avoids dying of laughter, and though she *just* manages to keep a small, flirtatious smile on her lips, she needs that arm to keep from falling over. "Ooh... don't mind if'n I do..." She rises to her feet and follows along, putting a faint sway in her hips as she walks. Waggling his eyebrows, Sandrim leads Zia up the stairs. Zia allows herself just the faintest bit of a tittering giggle, allowing Sandrim to lead her up the stairs. In the solitude of the inn, she releases his arm and grins up at him, stepping towards one of the rooms at the far end of the hall. "Sometimes he forgets and leaves one of these unlocked," she whispers. "Just depends on how much ale he had at the time." Sandrim smirks. "You've checked often?" he asks. ---- '''First Guest Suite - ' ---- ::This guest room of The Dragon's Hoard Tavern of Light's Reach is cozy and comfortable for two people to share, and with some squeezing enough for more if necessary. A wool carpet has been laid out on the floor just before the door, and curtains of the same forest green hang over the window on the opposite side of the room. ::''The needs of the guest are considered in here - a small stone fireplace in the wall provides some of these, and a round wooden bathtub sits by it, a place to wash up. The bed itself is a somewhat simple one, placed against the wall near the door, and just large enough for two people to share if they don't mind sleeping close to one another. A few chairs and a wardrobe finish out the furnishings. ::''A wood carving sits on the wall of the room, stained to a dark brown. An artist's depiction of Light's Reach before the Ravager. ---- Zia laughs, eyes widening in mock-innocence. "Are you suggesting something, good Master? For if you are, I'm sure I can put you straight..." A triumphant grin crosses her face as the door gives beneath her hands, and she slides it silently open, holding the door for Sandrim to pass through. "I merely... make it a point to know my surroundings. That's all." Sandrim grins broadly at Zia. "Of course," he says. "So, how did I do with the seductiveness?" Zia shuts the door behind them, sliding the lock into place and listening for the telltale click. "Bet you could've gotten a whore into bed, if the price was high enough!" she teases. " Zia shuts the door behind them, sliding the lock into place and listening for the telltale click. "Bet you could've gotten a whore into bed, if the price was high enough!" she teases, and shakes her head. "Actually, pretty damn well, all things considered." Sandrim nods, before walking over to sit before the fire. "So... What's going on?" Zia takes up a perch in one of the chairs, wrapping her cloak tighter about her. "I ran into Isa, and she really is Marisa, and making use of her talents made sense," she says. "I offered, she accepted, promised not to tell Thayndor, and did anyway. I kind of thought she would. She knows I know, but I don't think he does, yet. At least, he hasn't given any sign of it." Zia takes a breath. "The original plan was to send both of us to Northreach. Now, I think she's going to try and join some other anti-mage sentiment. She wanted to actually beat a mage. No... not wanted, she thought she needed to. That's why I'm spreading rumors. Marisa Greening is on probation--another slip against the law and she's a dead girl. This is at least *slightly* more legal, if she can prove her innocence later. If I can pull it off, she'll hopefully get some backstory on her side before she goes off saying 'Let me in! I want to help you lynch people!'." Sandrim groans and rubs his forehead. "Right," he says. "So... Marisa is on the move, which means Thayndor is. They're gonna flub it somehow, you know." Zia grins. "Maybe. But... it's safer this way." She gestures to her absurd costume. "Wandering around this way, I'm hoping nobody will recognize me going back to normal. Nobody solid to trace the rumor back to, and I don't plan on looking the same each time I walk into a tavern. If I'm careful about it, I can have the news out in about a week." Pause. "If Marisa flubs it, I s'pose I can only hope it doesn't come back to bite me when I go to Northreach." She stifles a cough with the back of her hand, and the brief frown that crosses her face might suggest she's not *entirely* happy with the plan as it stands. Sandrim shakes his head slowly. "You shouldn't have talked to her about it," he notes. "I... can try to get some Wildlanders watching the North Gate." "I don't know," Zia admits. "I have a week left before I find out. It's either a wise thing to do, or a very, very stupid one. I just don't know which, yet." Sandrim frowns thoughtfully. "In the case of it being a stupid thing," he says. "Do you have anything small that you carry?" Zia smiles wryly, and rises to her feet to draw her hunting knife. "For better or for worse..." Another knife emerges from her cloak. Another from a boot. From her pack. And another. And another. By the time she's done, a full six different blades lie side-by-side on the floor, five of them unfamiliar. "I... don't know how wise it is to carry all of these around," she says slowly. "Or to take them all to Northreach. But there they are." Sandrim is seated by the fireside, and Zia's now kneeling on the floor, dressed more than a little outrageously (and with more than a little skin showing). Sandrim hmms, then squats by the knives. "The one I touch, be sure to bring it to Northreach," he says before reaching out to lightly touch one, a faint purple glow showint momentarily beneath his finger. Zia nods, memorizing the dagger as that purple glow touches it. "Dare I ask what you did to it?" "A tracking rune," Sandrim replies, standing back up. "Toss it if you need to find me." There's a knock of warning, and then Taran slips into the room. "Asking for you is likely to do little for my reputation," he says to Sandrim dryly, and then takes in the sight of Zia. "Except tonight, perhaps." He laughs, rather gleefully wicked. "My dear, I don't know whether to ask you to marry me or have a fit. That looks *magnificent*. Beautifully done." "Thank you, Sandrim." Zia nods, taking up the knives and stowing them away in their various hiding places. She starts a bit as Taran turns up, and *almost* draws one of those daggers again. Instead, she laughs, twirling her cloak a bit even though the faintest hint of colour comes to her cheeks. "Aye? Well don't get used to it--it feels like being wrapped up in a steel spiderweb. Probably about as useful, too." Sandrim glances to Taran, then to Zia, then to Taran, and then sidesteps and wraps his arm around Zia, pulling her close. "Oh, come on now!" he whines. "I lured her up here with all the promises of swordwork!" Taran grins at Sandrim. "I have spent the majority of my life with a lack of possessiveness, and do not intend to return to the bad habits Celeste taught me. If she does not kill you, feel free. I am sure it is no place of mine to interfere." He winks, then finds a chair. "Mmm, did I see runes being made? I should do that, yes." Zia laughs, wriggling free and reaching up to lightly cuff Sandrim on the back of the head. "Ai, now! Ye've got t' larn t' share. Honestly. Worse 'an a couple o' kids," she chides, allowing herself to slip back into the Lightholder accent before sidestepping, planting both hands firmly on her hips, and giving each a long, assessing look. "I reckon I c'n take on th' both o' you, anyhow." She grins. "Aye. Runes. And you *did* already gave me your paper one." Sandrim crinkles his nose at Zia. "Mmf. Anyways, good to know what's going on. And what an idiot Thayndor is. Again. So, what now?" Taran blinks, somewhere between interested and curious. "So I did...and now you're giving me *ideas*, you evil wench, and after I told Sandrim no threesomes, too." He shakes his head firmly, as if showing the idea firmly to the door. "I imagine you've caught Sandrim up then? I've been so distracted with the vault thing...any new developments I need to be aware of?" "Ideas?" Zia echoes innocently. "Me? Never. The paint doesn't tell the painter what to paint, after all." She grins. "And I prefer the term 'wickedly inclined' over evil." She nods then, and coughs into her elbow. "I leave for Northreach in a week. Until then, I get to spread rumors that Isa beat a mage half to death in Lightholder, so she doesn't actually have to do it. But I *am* still going." She looks thoughtfully to Sandrim. "Well... at least this way I can keep an eye on him. He was planning on sending Marisa in anyway. Maybe I can keep things from going *completely* wrong. Seeing as she *was* planning on trying to kill a man." "Question: why do we let her do anything?" Sandrim asks dryly, resuming his seat by the fire. "She's not safe." "...Perhaps in the hope that one day she will do something so completely outrageous that Thayndor must be held responsible?" asks Taran hopefully. "Turn up on Thayndor's wedding day, should such a day arrive, and tell the lovely bride her children will love more brothers and sisters to play with?" Zia hms. "Because the alternative is killing her, probably, and there's wiser things to do." She grins. "And because she may or may not be the death of me yet?" Plucking fitfully at the neckline of the bodice, Zia takes up her seat in the chair again. Smiling and shaking his head, Sandrim stands. "Let's get back over to Crown's Refuge," he suggests. "Nicer than here." Taran regards said bodice thoughtfully for a moment, then says, "I quite agree, yes. Zia, I really am endeavoring to be polite, but your dress is making it *quite* difficult, you understand..." Zia nods and rises to her feet, extending a hand to help Taran to his. "Oh? Well if it's bothering you that much, I'm sure I can change out of it," she suggests helpfully, and winks. "Aye. Refuge, then." Sandrim smirks and shakes his head, walking out. Taran accepts the hand, smiling wryly. "...Do keep the costume? The imagination invents such interesting games. The timing is poor just at the moment, though." Zia laughs, tugging him to his feet. "I imagine it'll come in handy again, aye," she acknowledges. "The barkeep downstairs seemed to enjoy it, too." She smirks. Taran grins. "Any man with the slightest taste for women would, I assure you. Very distracting." He turns for the door. "Sandrim even *noticed* it." Zia makes a face, following along. "He was good about being part of the ruse. Fooled most of the guests downstairs." ---- ''Return to Season 8 (2008) 'Note: Yes, I ''know there is a plothole in the middle of this, where all three of us participating forgot we were in Light's Reach and created a rune. Please ignore that--if you would like, assume the scene took place in a tavern just on the outskirts of Light's Reach.'' Category:Logs